


Theory of Emotion

by plasticdaisy



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Artists, Art School, Fluff, Humanstuck, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Nudity, One Shot, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 06:07:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19312180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plasticdaisy/pseuds/plasticdaisy
Summary: Dave takes up a job as a nude figure model at an art class to get access to the school darkroom. A new student paints in a way he's never seen before, and though they're complete strangers, it unites them in a way he didn't believe was possible.





	Theory of Emotion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KittyMotor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittyMotor/gifts).



It’s hard to describe the juxtaposition between vanity and insecurity that accompanies getting naked for a living. On one hand, I hate myself – I won’t deny that. My body is littered in ugly, thick scars and my skin is discolored from sunburn. My hair never falls right, and my shades, despite being one of my prized possessions, lay somewhat tilted on my face because of the size of my ears. I’m too long and too thin, and despite the rigorous physical training I went through when I was younger, my physique has been ruined by the junk-food and soda I grew up eating.

But, I digress. Despite my hatred for looking in the mirror, there is something incredibly rewarding about my current job. I went through years of bouncing between pizza joints, and I could often be spotted downtown as the lanky, clumsy deliveryman rushing by on a worn-out bike.

Then, I stumbled across the adult art classes at my local community college. I’ve always frequented the darkroom on campus; I don’t attend, but I pay a couple bucks a month to go in and develop my photos. I used to do it in my bathroom, but after slipping and falling into a puddle of somewhat dangerous chemicals, I made the decision to try a less perilous route.

After a couple months of hauling ass to the college every weekend to develop rolls of film – many of which would just be duds – I was approached by one of the art professors.

 I frequently came very late at night after a long shift of delivering pizza to ungrateful assholes, propping open the door to the building with a rock and spending the night half-asleep on a stool in front of the photo enlarger, and it was completely by accident that he stumbled upon me leaving at four in the morning as I left campus.

After talking my ear off about the composition of my work being ‘far too melancholy’ which resulted in my photos being ‘incredibly hard to develop properly’, he questioned why I came by so late; I explained that I didn’t have time to come during the day – I had to keep a job to pay my rent.

He made me an offer, which leads me to explain the aforementioned _nudity_ ; he was the professor in three separate figure-drawing classes that needed live subject and had found himself in the sticky situation of being unable to find male models. He offered me free access to the photo studio, as well as enough money to cover my rent for the time he would need me to work for the college.

Given the fact my bicycle was on its last legs, I reluctantly agreed, and every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, I parked my ass on a chair in the center of a circle of canvases, ass-naked and holding something like a pitcher of water or a long cloth.

It feels oddly impersonal to sit naked in front of artists; they look at me with an impartial, curious eye – they are not judging me for my appearance but studying it. Unlike the insecurity I feel walking down the street or staring in the mirror, I feel a kind of … peace, a disconnection from the rest of the world as I become an object - in the classroom, I don’t exist as a human being, but as a medium through which a group of artists can refine their skills. And, all the existential crap aside, the time goes relatively fast and I get the added bonus of listening in on the occasional lecture.

It’s Wednesday night, half past five. The professor has a class at six. Since they’re for local adults and aspiring art students, the group changes frequently; but I’m always made aware of larger new crowds, because their wide-eyed awkwardness at my naked figure can be unsettling.

“Dave,” the professor adjusts the canvas on one of the easels as he speaks, “there’re a few new names tonight, alright?”

“’Aight,” I hum in reply, slipping off my shades and letting my eyes adjust to the bright, artificial lights in the room. It took a while for me to get used to not wearing them, but in all honestly, disconnecting from myself is the key to success in this line of work.

I adjust my robe, leaning against the back wall and pulling out my phone. I scroll aimlessly through social media as I wait, throwing a few texts at my sister, who takes an immense amount of pleasure in psychoanalyzing the joy I find in being a nude model for an adult art class.

I don’t blame her.

The half hour before class slips away on its hands and knees, but the anticipation is always the slowest part.

People start making their way inside at ten minutes to six, making themselves comfortable at their easels. The regulars arrive first; most of them are older hobbyists who find it cathartic or relaxing to attend the class, though a few are high schoolers who need to meet the pre-requisite of a figure-painting class before applying to art school.

As six grows closer, I rake my eyes across the room, trying to find the newcomers. It looks like some of them just didn’t show up; there are two easels sitting empty. One is another high schooler, a bright-eyed kid with dyed hair and a bedazzled bag full of sparkle-adorned brushes. She converses excited with the person to her left, who I assume she knows from school. Sitting on her right is someone about my age I haven’t seen before; as he sits down, he rolls up the sleeves to his flannel and slips off his beanie, mussing his dark hair.

He’s attractive, and I look away.

The professor introduces the newbies, giving a brief talk on how the session is going to go. After about fifteen minutes, he turns to look at me.

“We’ll be using Dave as our model tonight,” he says, gesturing in my direction. Offering a wave, I straighten my robe, pushing myself off the wall and sauntering over. He’s set up a plastic chair in the center of the room and draped a red cloth over it; I know this one. He rotates the setups from class to class, mixing it up every week. For this one, I hold a bouquet of flowers loosely in my right hand, sitting with my elbows propped up on my knees and my head bent towards the floor. It’s a little uncomfortable, but nothing I can’t handle. The worst part is how the flowers tickle my leg.

I roll my neck, joining the professor in the center of the circle. He finishes his explanation, before gesturing for me to sit down. I take a deep breath and unfasten the robe, letting it fall to my feet. I don’t look up; their eyes are searching me with judgement before I sit down.

I grab the bouquet of flowers, assuming my position in the chair.

By half past seven, my back is aching and my muscles are tight. The professor calls for a short break, and I immediately stretch, running a hand through my hair and rubbing my legs with my palms. It’s a little cold in the studio.

I set down the bouquet, picking up my robe and draping it over my lap as I lean back in the chair and close my eyes.

“That’s an interesting setup,” I hear the professor remark, and I blink, readjusting to the light in the room as I glance over. He’s leaning back in that way artists do, examining one of the canvases with his head tilted and his pen resting on his chin. The student is playing with the bristles of one of his brushes, staining his fingers with paint. It’s the new guy; the one I’d never seen before. I notice now that he has two studs in his lower lip – he’s biting on one of them as the professor speaks.

“ – I suppose I didn’t specifically say you couldn’t include anything else,” he continues, “and you’ve delivered it well. It’s hard to believe you accomplished so much in just an hour and a half.”

“Thanks,” the stranger lights up a little, offering a charming smile; it reminds me of the way the light feels on my face when I leave the darkroom in the afternoon. The professor moves on, but I let my eyes linger on what I can see from my side of the canvas. The man has his head dipped down, presumably cleaning up his work area, but I can see just the tips of his hair licking the air. When he raises his head again, I avert my eyes to the loose petals that had gathered on the floor.

I hadn’t realized they had fallen.

The ten-minute break feels longer than usual, and I don’t want to blame it on the handsome newcomer – so I choose to instead decide that my back hurts more than usual.

Thankfully, once the painters start again, time flies. The professor puts on some light music, and I let my eyes follow the cracks in the floor-tiles until eight-thirty, when it’s announced that class is over. I stand, stretching my arms above my head, and lift my robe from the floor. My back cracks audibly as I straighten back to my full height, slipping the robe over my shoulders and loosely securing it. As the students filter out, I take a sip from the stale water bottle I left in my bag. It’s from a few days back, and the label is gone. It tastes vaguely of plastic.

I choose not to watch the students leave.

After everyone is gone, the professor beckons me over to the canvases. Often, he likes to show me the paintings; I like to see how they turn out, especially since I’m the subject. He leads me across the line, and I see the usual – depictions of me sitting bent over in the chair, some with more detail than others, and some crooked and misshapen. Most are vague shapes that I recognize as my body, though some capture my hair color, or use shadows to mimic the expression on my face.

As I look down the line, I notice one that is different from the rest.

The canvas is fully painted, which is the first thing I notice. The background is a mix of purples, blues, and greys; it looks almost like the sky at night. A string of lights floats above my head. The pose remains the same, but one of my more prevalent scars – one that runs from the left side of my chest down to the center of my stomach – is almost perfectly represented.

No one ever paints my scars.

I don’t know if it’s because it’s awkward for them, or because it seems an unnecessary detail, but I’ve seen dozens of paintings over the past few months, and not a single one has depicted my scars.

“Who did this one?” I ask, wringing the belt of my robe between my hands. The professor glances up from the clipboard he’s holding.

“Oh … it was that new student,” he snaps his fingers, visibly trying to bring the name to his head, “… Kat. Karkat Vantas.”

I repeat the name under my breath, letting my gaze wash over the painting one more time. I would never admit it, but I go home with the image of him on the other side of the canvas in my mind.

Four weeks pass.

Karkat returns each time; he’s not one of the one-time-shows. In all honesty, I’m not sure if I’m happy with it or not. At the end of each class, I wander over to his canvas and see myself against the night sky, framed by strings of lights and covered in familiar white lines.

The fifth week, I come two hours early – I was developing photos and had expected to last in the darkroom until six. I was proven wrong; I had far too many duds. The professor is in his office hours, but the room is unlocked, luckily. The lights are on, but the empty easels folded up against the wall makes the room appear almost lifeless.

I shove my hands into the pocket of my hoodie, walking over to the canvas propped up against the back wall. Karkat’s last painting of me is there, and I lower myself onto the floor, sitting in front of it. I follow the scars on my body and the painted strings of lights. I rub the marks on my hands.

There’s something about his paintings that cut the red ribbons securing the differences between me as an object of education and me as a human being; his work rips beyond the shapes of my limbs, wandering underneath my skin. Somehow, it feels like he sees me in a different way. He is not an impartial artist – but I can’t figure out what he finds when he paints me.

“I didn’t think anyone would be in here,” a voice calls out across the empty room. It’s only somewhat familiar.

I quickly rise to my feet, turning on my heel. My head spins as my blood pressure adjusts. Karkat is standing in the doorway to the room, his backpack slung over one shoulder.

“… Yeah, I was just … a little early, was all,” I mumble in reply. I shuffle a little, shifting my weight from one side to the other. My converse make a noise on the floor as I move.

“I don’t recognize you from class,” he states blankly, and I can’t help myself as I laugh.

“You _really_ don’t?” I offer, struggling to breathe as I choke back my laughter, “Do you need me to strip for you?”

His eyes widen.

“Oh, fuck! You’re the model!” he exclaims, “I didn’t recognize you with – with clothes on.”

There’s a beat of silence before we both burst out laughing. His laugh is an explosion in bright shades; a firework in the room. It’s contagious. Once we both calm down, he walks over, a smile lingering on his face. There’s a flush on his cheeks. As he gets closer, I see his eyes are a warm brown. Looking into them is like sitting in the sun.

“What are you looking at?” he asks, tilting his head as he approaches the canvases.

“Yours, actually.”

He looks at me for a moment, before his eyes join mine, exploring the painting.

“…I like yours the most,” I continue, “there’s something about them.”

“There’s something about you,” he replies almost instantly.

I scoff, shaking my head.

“Thanks.”

“No, really,” he turns to me, “I don’t know what the fuck it is, but you make me want to paint. I thought I’d sucked all the fun out of it with all the technicalities.”

“You’re really talented.”

He rolls his eyes.

“C’mon,” I nudge his shoulder, “it’s not me that puts the paint on the canvas. You can treat me like your sexy Greek muse, but in the end my job is to sit still in a chair. It’s all you, dude. Whatever it is that you think sucks about your work, I promise, you’re the only one thinking it.”

 “… Thank you,” he murmurs, “I think I needed to hear that.”

“Anytime,” I reply confidently.

There’s a moment of quiet before I can say anything else. I can hear the tree outside scraping against the window and the fan on the ceiling whir.

“Hey, Karkat.”

“Hm?”

“Why did you decide to paint my scars?”

He takes a deep breath.

“I didn’t think it was right to leave them out. They’re a part of you.”

“… They’re ugly.”

“They don’t have to be,” he replies quickly, looking up at me, “did you notice the lights?”

“What about them?”

“Look at them, dipshit.”

I let my eyes wander across the painting, following the pattern of the lights. Then, it hits me – the strings follow the same lines as my scars. My mind races as I think back to every painting he’s done. For every angle, the lights are always different.

The lights follow the shapes of my scars. He took the ugliest part of me, and he turned it into the most beautiful part of his paintings.

“… Do you see it now?” he murmurs. I nod. I don’t know what to say. I can feel my hands shaking. I pull them from my pockets, clenching them at my sides.

The silence grows around us. It’s uncomfortable. He offers his arms to me, and I return the embrace. He’s warm; I barely know him, but somehow he feels like home. We stand there for a minute, basking in the small things that connect us both – two strangers, strung together with oil paint. I feel like he’s seen me bare beyond my skin.

He pulls away, but his hand lingers around my waist.

He leans up, making his intentions clear.

“Can I?”

“Yes.”

He presses a chaste kiss to my cheek. The feeling explodes across my skin like electricity; he was so gentle, so careful, so loving. It feels like he might disappear into the emptiness of the rest of the room; reality doesn't come so softly or so kindly as the feeling of his lips against my skin.

“Come see me after class,” he murmurs as he moves his hands back to his sides, “if you want, I mean. I’d like to … take you out for coffee, or something.”

I feel a smile spread across my face, and I think of the lights he already puts in the vast, empty expanse of my personal sky.

“I’d like that a lot.”

**Author's Note:**

> i'm sorry if this is a little clunky or hard to read; i'm still getting back in the groove of writing.  
> this is named after the song of the same name by del water gap


End file.
